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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016631">After the Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson'>objectlesson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Time, Floor Sex, In Vino Veritas, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Tenderness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:40:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard refused to speak to any other representative from Erebor after all the grief and ruin and fire Thorin Oakenshield brought down upon him, for now, he did not trust dwarves. Bard was the sort of man who did not make the same mistake twice.</p><p>But Bofur—Bofur is different, somehow.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bard the Bowman/Bofur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>After the Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Der_Spatz/gifts">Der_Spatz</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incogneet0/gifts">Incogneet0</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi friends!! This is a gift for Incogneet0, who supplied MUCH of the head canons I built it upon (and who just daily supplies me with head canons and amazing art and who is just a lovely person I'm very glad is my friend), and for Der_Spatz, BEACAUSE it is her BIRTHDAY and she wrote such a long sweet wonderful post canon Bardfur fic it inspired me to write my own. </p><p>This has sort of melancholy tone (It's Bard's POV) but it had a happy ending!!! And it is very tender!!!  I hope you guys, and whoever else reads it, likes it!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s very late, and as usual, Bard has no desire to fall asleep in his new, strange, massive bed with the four posters and the red velvet canopy. Dust gets layered into the heavy folds, and he wakes up sneezing. It’s a dead end, though, because he doesn’t exactly miss his <em>old</em> mattress back in Lake Town either, with the worn-down bits where straw poked through, itchy and painful in the night. </p><p>He spends very many evenings not sleeping at all, and many more stretched out on the chaise by the window overlooking the newly bustling streets of Dale, imagining what it might look like when it is fully rebuilt, and he can perhaps retire from his position as Master. Pass it off on someone who actually <em>wants</em> it. </p><p>Unfortunately, Bard is learning the sort of people who desire power don’t actually deserve it, and those who have no craving for it in the least are the only ones who do not take advantage of all that it provides. </p><p>It’s something he’s discussed at length with Bofur, who has somewhat unexpectedly become his closest friend and ally in the bleak, ever-crawling months of bureaucratic misery which have been forced upon him in the aftermath of battle. Bard refused to speak to any other representative from Erebor after all the grief and ruin and fire Thorin Oakenshield brought down upon him, for now, he did not trust dwarves. Bard was the sort of man who did not make the same mistake twice. </p><p>But Bofur—Bofur is different, somehow.</p><p>Bard rarely presses on that difference long enough to put words to it. He knows it has something to do with his humor—his smile. His refusal to entertain greed. His effortless kindness. In Bard’s experience, dwarves are secretive, but Bofur is the exception. There is something broken open about him, and Bard is always having to hold back from taking that openness as some sort of <em>invitation </em>and just stepping inside. </p><p>He’s not sure what he’d do, once he got there. Bard does not let himself want foolish impossible things, especially not wish foolish impossible people, so instead he settles for the tentative professional friendship they’ve forged in the ruins of dragon fire. Bofur acts as an ambassador for Dain, and Bard does what he can to cooperate. It is best for his people, after all, and that is what matters. And this is what he tells himself every day upon returning home from seemingly endless diplomatic councils, exhausted beyond measure, but still unable to sleep beneath the canopy of his new, too-cold bed.</p><p>—-</p><p>His camaraderie with Bofur is born mostly from shared complaints. </p><p>Bard is a bargeman and a father. He is not a politician, and he has little patience for the sorts of meetings he must attend now that he’s playing one. He is always fighting the urge to roll his eyes, to skip pleasantries, to stand up and walk out the door so that he does not have to endure any more of King Thranduil’s thinly veiled insults, and Dain’s ensuing rage. He’s tired of biting his tongue. </p><p>It’s better, when he notices there’s someone <em>else</em> who seems to feel the same way about things. Bofur with lips pressed flat and his brows raised in expressive arches. Bofur pillowing his face on his arms and shamelessly <em>sleeping</em> through the bits of the meeting which don’t apply to him. Bofur lightening the tension in the room with well-timed jokes. Bofur with his flint dark eyes and rough fingers he drums in cheery beats on the carved table they’re seated around, grounding Bard with the barest bones of music. He sits there and watches those fingers when he cannot listen to officials droning on and on and arguing about nothing. He recognizes the beat, sometimes, or supplements his own tunes in his head: sailor’s songs about knots, and hammers, and the lick of the sea against the hull of vast ships. It’s oddly comforting, to know Bofur also cannot care to pay attention. That his mind is elsewhere, dreaming of music.</p><p>They meet eyes across the room sometimes, and it always tugs low and sudden in Bard’s gut. It is odd, to be <em>seen</em> and not just watched with scrutiny and judgement. Bofur’s dark irises glitter and twinkle like the night sky, and sometimes he will lift his brows to emphasize his irritation, or jerk his head very subtly to the left, a shoulder dropping in mock exhaustion as if to say <em>can’t fucking wait for this to be over, </em>and Bard will nod back, tacitly agreeing <em>me too. </em></p><p>Other times, Bofur will wink at him, as fast as a rat skirting across the floor with stolen crumbs, and Bard will wonder if he imagined it even as his heart races and his mouth goes dry. He’s capable of returning eye-rolls and long-suffering, pained glances, but he cannot return a wink. There is something too massive and frightening and <em>heavy </em>about that, even though he is sure Bofur does not mean it, or anything else, in a heavy way. Instead he always looks down, schooling something like a smile, though it’s been so very long since he shared one of those with someone other than his children, he cannot be sure. </p><p>It is something he imagines late at night when he is restless, though. The flash of a lid over dark, the corner of Bofur’s full, soft mouth turned up, the edge of his smile disappearing into his mustache like the tip of the mountain into a bank of fog. </p><p>—-</p><p>One of the first businesses they reopen in Dale is a pub. Bofur always goes there after attending meetings, and he makes sure to invite Bard, who really shouldn’t but always does. It’s strange to have a friend—someone to share grievances with, to unpack pain with. Bard is so accustomed to tucking everything he feels away in the cavity of his chest, and he’s not used to the way Bofur just—<em>asks</em> him to unload it all over a pint. “So why don’t ye’tell me ‘bout your wife, bet she was an angel, huh? <em>Had</em> to be to put up with a somber-faced bloke like you,”  he jokes on their very first time out together. Bard just stares, so caught off guard by raw honesty that he can’t respond save for choking on his ale. </p><p>Bofur reaches out, and brushes his knuckles down Bard’s upper arm then, something softer than and just short of a punch. “Hey, m’only joking. You might be a somber-faced bloke but, but you’re an <em>insufferably</em> handsome somber-faced bloke. Can’t figure out for the life of me why y’never remarried. Bet half the lasses in Esgaroth were fighting tooth’n nail over you.” </p><p>Bard snorts, rubbing a hand over his mouth, cheeks coloring. “Can’t say they were.” </p><p>“Truly shocking,” Bofur says then, throwing back some of his ale. Foam clings to his mustache, and Bard wants to wipe it away with his thumb. Bofur should seem <em>rude, </em>prodding for personal information, talking unprompted about Bard’s late wife, drinking messily—but somehow, he’s not. Everything he says only reads as charming, blows softened by his smile, the crinkles by his eyes. He grins up at Bard, and Bard finds himself grinning back. </p><p>As the days wear on and the pub becomes a habit, Bard stops wanting to wipe the ale-foam from Bofur’s upper lip with his hand, and instead begins to imagine the taste of it under his tongue. He tries not to torture himself too much with such a terrible, improbable fantasy, but it proves difficult, when Bofur is always <em>touching him. </em></p><p>It’s been a long time since Bard was idly touched. He hugs and kisses his kids good night, and he passes toll money from his own hands to those of the elves who guard the gates at the river where it swells just beyond the borders of the Woodland Realm, but save for that, he’s weathered years of drought. </p><p>Bofur never <em>stops </em>touching, though. He’s like the tide, ebbing and flowing, lapping at the shore and receding for a moment only to come back again.  Bard is not certain if it’s something common for all the Darrow or if it is specific to Bofur, for he does not keep company with other dwarves. All he knows is that it’s <em>maddening. </em>He lays his warm palm on Bard’s lower back sometimes as they walk together from the Town Hall, pointing at birds which spiral overhead, chasing each other and darting through the newly hung paper lanterns framing the cobblestone streets. He leans too close and notches their knees together as they sit on the pub-stools, eyes flashing. He reaches out and squeezes Bard’s shoulder when he stands to buy them another round. He tucks his head very close and puts his mouth right up against Bard’s ear so he can speak directly into it when the rowdy din gets too loud to be heard over, his breath always hot and boozy, lips grazing skin occasionally and making Bard shiver and clutch at his mug. </p><p>It’s far too easy to imagine what all this might feel like under other circumstances. Bofur’s hands on his body without birds to point at or clothing to obstruct. Bofur’s mouth pressed to his temple, murmuring filth because Bard is fairly certain that in bed, Bofur is the filth -murmuring sort. </p><p>He shouldn’t be thinking about such things, but he doesn’t sleep much and he <em>must</em> find his dreams somewhere. So, this is where he tucks them: into the spaces between the gratuitous, perhaps accidental brush of Bofur’s  clever hands. </p><p>—-</p><p>Their trips to the pub end up becoming trips to Bard’s new home. It feels less cavernous and strange with Bofur there anyway, and he decides it’s rather foolish to pay for watered down ale when he’s gifted bottles of wine every time Dale toasts over a new statute or trade agreement. So, he lets a decanter of red air out and dozes on the chaise while Bofur tells the kids stories in front of the crackle of the fire. Bard finds it much easier to sleep when Bofur is there, anyhow. </p><p>There are many reasons why, but the only one Bard allows himself to think of with any depth is that Bofur is wonderful with his children. Bard can actually relax knowing they’re safe and entertained, that there are no dragons or cruel, suspicious men lurking outside on the water, ever-watching. It is a different city and a different life he leads, now, and the sound of Bofur’s flute or his lilting, musical voice are stable reminders of that sometimes difficult to remember fact. </p><p>Bofur is sunshine and humor and stability, especially now that it’s late winter when the night wind is especially biting. Sometimes he brings the children gifts from the treasure horde in the mountain: jeweled necklaces for Sigrid, heavy gold bangles for Tilda that he can slip over her balled fist, finely hewn toy ships and a wooden scabbard for Bain’s favorite toy sword. The girls fall asleep in their jewels and Bard’s heart clenches upon tucking them, and when he wanders back out to the fire, it only clenches up <em>harder</em> when his gaze lands upon Bofur. He’s pouring them both glasses of red wine, tunic lazily unbuttoned down his chest, scarf and woolen jacket slung over an arm. “Got proper warm in here, finally, had to shimmy out of a few layers,” he says sheepishly, handing off the wine with such messiness  that their fingers tangle together in the exchange. “Guess that's what happens when you keep feeding the fire, right?” </p><p>There’s something sad in his eyes as he says it, and it makes Bard’s breath stutter in his throat. “Right,” he murmurs, eyes burning. Perhaps he is imagining things. He often imagines things, it’s the curse of a man who does not sleep well at night. Whose dreams must be stolen when waking. </p><p>It <em>is </em>warm but they end up sprawled out in front of the flames anyway, atop heaps of skins and embroidered throw-cushions. Bard has never had embroidered throw cushions in his life before, and he has to force himself to use them so they don’t just collect dust. He leans back and something bites into his spine, so he reaches around to fish it out. It’s Bain’s new scabbard, which is hewn from beautiful, hand-carved mahogany with rubies inlaid into it. “This is beautiful,” he murmurs, thumbing over the glinting crimson. “Your own handiwork, I presume?” </p><p>“Aye,” Bofur yawns, taking a thoughtful sip of his wine. “Can’t take credit for the jewelry, though, I’ve always been better at wood-craft than metal. I just nicked that stuff from Thror’s loot. He won’t miss it, old dead bastard. Doubt anyone will now that Thorin’s off in the Shire and Dain’s trying his damnedest to be reasonable.” </p><p>Bard swallows thickly, both moved and overwhelmed. “Those jewels are probably worth a fortune. You didn’t have to—M’not struggling to feed my family anymore, Bofur,” he reminds him. </p><p>Bofur shrugs and gestures loosely with his glass, head tilting towards Bard with a smile. “Oh, I know. Don’t worry, I didn't mean it as an insult to you. It’s a selfish thing, actually. Truth is, it rather pleases me to think of a seven year old playing dress up with the things Thorin nearly died protecting.” Then he frowns, pursing his wine-stained lips. “Does that make me petty?” </p><p>Bard coughs into his own glass, shaking his head. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. Or if it does, I think you deserve to indulge whatever pettiness you harbor regarding Thorin Oakenshield. I know I certainly do.” </p><p>They are quiet together for a moment as the fire pops. Eventually Bofur sighs, finishes off his wine, and lies back. “Reckon I do have plenty reason to be bitter, even still. He <em>did</em> try to abandon me in shit-kicking little Lake-Town,” he jokes, eyes twinkling as he regards Bard from beneath arched brows. Bard looks away, fighting a reflexive smile, cheeks hot. Even then, when he was certain the dragon would kill him and his family  and he <em>hated</em> the dwarves for leading orcs to his home, he saw Bofur as somehow <em>separate</em> from the rest of them. Even then, he noticed things about him: his hat, his scarf, his unflinching optimism. It reminded him of his <em>own</em> unflinching pessimism, somehow: they were both committing to an extreme in the face of peril, Bofur refusing to accept failure, Bard expecting it. That has how he’s always dealt with fear: if you brace yourself for the worst, you can only be pleasantly surprised. “Honestly though—it’s not even the left-behind part that hurts most, when I think back on it,” Bofur says softly, rubbing his hand up from his stomach to his chest, accidentally rucking open another button. Bard’s eyes snag on the newly exposed skin and he takes a long sip of his wine. “It’s mostly the—the bit about the Arkenstone.” </p><p>Bard’s brows furrow. He doesn't know this part of the story. He and Bofur are always revealing new things to each other, fragments of the tense, pre-war landscape like layers peeled back from an onion, curled tight around the same ultimate truth.  “What happened with the Arkenstone?” </p><p>Bofur yawns, tucking fingers beneath the hem of his tunic to idly scratch at his belly. Bard tears his gaze away defiantly. “Oh just that in the thick of his madness accused <em>me</em> of stealing it. Like <em>I</em> actually cared about the treasure in the first place,” he explains, frowning. “It wasn’t really even about the Arkenstone, though, it was about Bilbo. <em>That’s</em> what he was worried about me stealing,” he says. When he forces this time, it does not reach his eyes. </p><p>Quite suddenly, Bard’s mouth is very dry. “I—were you? I mean, did you—” he sputters, <em>needing</em> to know. Needing to know if there was any real basis to Thorin’s fear, if he was just drowning in dragon-induced paranoia, or if Bofur <em>was</em> a genuine threat. If he <em>could</em> have loved Bilbo, who is neither a woman, or another dwarf, just like Bard.</p><p>“Did I want him for myself?” Bofur snorts, mouth flattening out into a sudden bitter line. “I don’t <em>take</em> things for myself. And the fact <em>Thorin</em> wanted him so badly was enough to keep me from even thinking about it too much. Bilbo was—<em>is</em>—my friend and I only wanted the best for him, more than anything else,” he explains, eyes darkening and oh—<em>oh. </em>Bard can tell just by looking at him where the fissures of hurt have been filled in with diamond. Something hard and reflective and impossible to break. “He was my friend,” he repeats. “I wouldn’t have like. Said <em>no</em> to a roll in the hay if he was so inclined, though. But he and Thorin are riding off to the Shire to farm potatoes now together or whatever, and I’m here taking jewels from Erebor, so who knows, really. Maybe I <em>am</em> a thief.” </p><p>They’re quiet again, and Bard can hardly breathe. “I’m sorry,” he says eventually without looking up. The words stick in his throat but he still means it. “Are you still in love with him?” he asks then, thumbing up the side of his wine-glass. </p><p>“Oh <em>Mahal,”</em> Bofur groans, rolling over and burying his face in one of the throw pillows. “I don’t need your pity, Bard the fucking Bowman,” he snorts. “And <em>no. </em>I never was. I told you, I don’t take things for myself.” </p><p>Bard swirls the last gritty mouthful of wine before throwing it back to swallow, eyes fixed on the fire, heart aching. “Perhaps,” he says. “But taking things is not the same as wanting them. Wishing you could take them.” His gaze flashes back to Bofur then, climbing up the broad, stout shape of his ribcage, getting stuck in the muted strength of his arms. It’s taken the possibility of Bofur being in love with someone else to force Bard to realize <em>he</em> is in love with Bofur. Has been,  for a stupidly and dangerously long time. “Anyway,” he chokes out. “We cannot always stop ourselves from falling in love.” </p><p>Bofur looks up for that and finds his glass amid the skins, visibly disappointed it’s empty. “I was going to say <em>cheers</em> and drink to that,” he mumbles. “But I guess we’re out of wine.” </p><p>Bard shakes his head, and drags himself up using the sofa behind them. He’s not nearly dizzy enough when he stands. “I’ll open another bottle,” he promises. </p><p>It is not until he’s in the kitchen does he realize his hands are trembling.</p><p>—-</p><p>They only get through another glass each before Bard’s eyes start to get heavy. He can’t stop staring at Bofur’s <em>mouth, </em>either, thinking over and over again about <em>rolling in the hay, </em>the ease with which he spoke about fucking a Hobbit as if there was no shame and no scandal in such a thing. They are not speaking of such transgressions now, so he cannot bring them up. Bofur keeps laughing, though, head thrown back and his hat discarded somewhere, hair coming undone from messy braids Bard longs to sink his fingers into the remnants of them and twist. He longs for so many things. </p><p>He's probably too drunk, he realizes. It’s hard to focus. </p><p>There’s no ale in Bofur’s mustache this time but <em>still, </em>Bard cannot stop himself from wanting to lick over it. Suck the wine-stains from his teeth. Fit his hand between the two remaining buttons done up on his tunic and feel the scrub of hair between his navel and the waistband of his trousers. Bard is well-accustomed to nursing some terrible, aimless, <em>ache</em> regarding Bofur, but now that he has a name for it, the sting feels unbearable. <em>You may not take things for yourself </em>he thinks as the fire burns lower, casting them in flickering shadow. <em>But you could take anything you wanted from me. You already have my heart. The rest is yours to steal if you are the sort of dwarf who steals things, now. </em></p><p>Bard drifts off before the fire dies, so it’s startling when he wakes up shivering in cold darkness. He blinks in the sudden black, trying to remember where he is. It’s been so very long since he slept with any degree of depth. He jerks up, and knocks into Bofur, who swears. </p><p>“Oh!” he says, reeling back, skin burning. “M’sorry, I forgot—I—”</p><p>“S’alright,” Bofur murmurs, pushing him down gently with a small but broad palm on his chest. Bard can feel his heart thundering under the pressure. “You were dreaming.” </p><p>Bard blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, trying to remember. “I wasn’t,” he mumbles. </p><p>“You were making sounds,” Bofur whispers. “Thought you were crying. Woke me up.” His thumb grazes over Bard’s sternum, and he gasps as the contact, heart alight with one hundred foolish wishes without names. <em>I wish I wish I wish </em>he thinks on a frantic loop, though nothing comes after that initial wild hope. He won’t let himself. All he will do is lie in trembling darkness as Bofur shifts closer, the only warm thing in the night now that the coals have gone grey and silent. He sucks in a sharp breath, and his hand comes up blindly to curl around Bofur’s wrist. </p><p>“I was?” he asks.</p><p>“Aye,” Bofur answers. They lie there for a few sluggish moments, Bofur’s hand spread over Bard’s heart, Bard’s fingers pressed tight into his pulse. They are feeling one another’s blood: the speeding rush of it through each other’s veins, and Bard is terrified that if he lets go, Bofur will pull away. So, he just clutches harder, blinking up at the ceiling, mouth set into a defiant line. He wonders if he has ever wanted something so purely and recklessly in his life, and decides that he has not, because surely enduring this more than once would have fucking killed him. </p><p>“It’s beating so fast,” Bofur eventually marvels, pressing into the insistent thud of his heart. “You don’t remember your dreams? No nightmares?” </p><p>He is close enough Bard feels his breath, hot and wine-sweet against his cheek. He inhales fiercely before barking out a delirious laugh. “No. It’s not beating because of—<em>Bofur,” </em>he murmurs, choking on his name, resolve crumbling away to the strange surreality of the night. “Forgive me. I know I am not the one you want. I know that now,” the words come out thick between frantic swallows. Maybe this is a dream after all.  He cannot be sure, for the room is very black and very cold and nothing feels real, save for the heat of Bofur’s body, the way his hair is brushing sweetly against Bard’s forearm, the startled huffs of his exhalations. “But have you ever considered that I would not say <em>no</em> to a roll in the hay if you were so inclined?” he asks, parroting Bofur’s own self deprecation with a generous dose of his own. </p><p>The words hang in the night. </p><p>Bofur is very quiet, for a moment, and in that moment Bard feels like his life both begins and ends. Then, there is a gradual and reassuring press against his thigh in the shape of Bofur’s knee. He pushes back into the anchor point, and holds his breath. “You wouldn’t?” Bofur asks. </p><p>Bard shakes his head, then remembers Bofur likely cannot see him. “I would not,” he chokes out. “Far from it.” </p><p>And that is all it takes. </p><p>Bard has thought of kissing Bofur so many times. Imagined the wet slide of his mouth, the scrape of his facial hair, the plush, hot, filthy press of his tongue. He’s stunned into a shuddering gasp, then, when the reality is not like his dreams, but tentative, instead. His lips ghosting over the corner of Bard’s mouth as if he’s asking a question, one hand spreading firm but gentle on the side of his face. Bard sucks in a desperate breath, astounded by the tenderness. Then, he makes two fists in Bofur’s unbuttoned tunic, and pulls him closer. </p><p>The next part happens faster. Bofur is drinking in his exhalations, thumbing over his cheekbones and then down to the hollow of his throat where his pulse races like it is being chased as he vaults up easily to straddle Bard’s hips, his weight solid and maddening. Then his calloused hands are everywhere, searching, his lips not quite kissing as he brushes over Bard’s mouth and chin and jawline and brow with such tremulous awe Bard’s eyes prickle up with longing tears. “Please,” he murmurs then, voice a quiet, fragile thing in the night, easily flattened out into nothingness as Bofur <em>finally</em> bends down, curses, and presses their mouths flush. </p><p>Then, it is all of his imaginings at once. Slick and demanding, fever-hot and sweet. Bofur kisses with the same raw, glorious <em>openness</em> he does everything else, and so his kisses are like his laughter, his stories, his smile: sun-bright and rich. Bard feels like he’s overflowing, so <em>hungry</em> for every wet, red-wine drag of Bofur’s mouth he keeps forgetting to breathe. It takes a long time before they find grace or rhythm, but that hardly matters, to Bard. All he cares about is that Bofur is <em>kissing </em>him, kissing him deep and desperate, the way a storm-sea crashes against the shore. </p><p>Bard lets himself lose time to it. Bofur is groaning into his mouth and sucking his tongue, rocking his hips back onto Bard’s hard cock and squeezing him between his stout, powerful thighs. The rest of the world falls away to the unrelenting deluge of sensation. Heat, pressure, the wet of spit shining on Bard’s mouth when Bofur lets it go only to lick his way down the line of his throat instead. “Fuck, <em>Mahal,” </em>he groans there, voice nothing but a reedy rumble where it’s trapped. “Will you let me see you, please? I can relight the fire, I just need t’see what you look like right now. Need your eyes,” he begs, and Bard is in no position to deny him anything he wants. </p><p>“There’s a lantern in the kitchen,” he croaks out, scrubbing a hand over his face in the darkness, skin burning beneath his own palm. “I will be here.” </p><p>“Right. You’d better be. Don't move,” Bofur demands. And then he’s pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the jut of his Adam’s apple before he clambers up and disappears into the darkness. </p><p>Bard makes quick work of his clothing, past the point of caring if he seems overeager or transparent. His want has diluted his dignity, and he is but a slave to it now. He just <em>needs</em> Bofur and needs him badly, even if it is just for one night. Even if he is not the one he loves. Bard is used to things not fitting quite right, anyway, from political positions to embroidered throw pillows to velvet canopies to his own misplaced hunger, his own yearning loneliness. </p><p>Bofur comes back with the lantern and a bottle of olive oil, flushed face illuminated in restless orange light. “Ah. That’s better,” he says, setting the lantern on the hearth as he fits himself to Bard’s side, spreading his palms up his bare chest with his lip dimpled under a crooked incisor. “Help me, Mahal, you are—there aren’t <em>words</em> in either of our languages for it,” he breathes as he drops his mouth to Bard’s sternum, swirling his tongue over the smattering of dark hair there. Then he coats his hand in olive oil before cupping it slick and messy over Bard’s cock, working him slow and steady, up and down murmuring in Khuzdul against his throat. “<em>Fuck </em>me, If I knew you’d’ve let me touch you like this, I would’ve been in your trousers <em>ages</em> ago,” he growls before licking his way over to a nipple, sucking it into his mouth so fiercely bard cries out, hoping the scrape of Bofur’s teeth leaves a mark. He wants to be covered, he wants something in the morning to press his fingers into, and remember. </p><p>He cards a hand through Bofur’s hair, blunt nails against his scalp. “I didn’t know how to ask. I wasn’t sure—“ </p><p>“What, that I fancied Men?” Bofur mumbles as he mouths lower, hand doing terrible, clever things between Bard’s thighs, making him arch his back and rock desperately into the heat of his palm.  “The first time we went to the pub, I called you insufferably handsome. I've winked at ye’across the council table about a hundred times. I wasn’t sure I could make it any clearer.” </p><p>Bard moans, bucking into the oil-slick tightness of Bofur’s practiced fist. “You didn’t—you could have <em>done</em> something. I don’t trust what you say, so much of it is in <em>jest, I—” </em>he cuts himself off with his next breath, sharp and sudden because Bofur is nudging down beneath his balls, rubbing his hole in deep, hungry circles. </p><p>“I told you. I don’t take things for myself,” Bofur reminds him, just as he tucks a single finger inside, crooking it easily. </p><p>Bard’s thighs fall apart easily and he gasps, bearing down upon the intrusion, body opening up the way an overripe fruit splits under the sun. “Take me,” he begs, chest shuddering in its sheen of sweat. “Please, <em>please</em>, take me.” </p><p>Bofur’s eyes flash a hungry black, and he does not waste time. He claims Bard’s desperate mouth in a kiss, fucking his lips open with his tongue for a few searing seconds before he’s kissing a haphazard path down, finger still buried deep in clenching heat. Bard stares at him through the haze of static eclipsing his vision, holding his breath as Bofur arranges himself between his legs, pushes another fingers in alongside the first with a delicious and overwhelming burn, and sucks his cock down like a flash flood. </p><p>It’s unbelievably good. Bard fists in the mess of skins beneath him, spine curling as Bofur’s thick fingers punch raw, animal sounds from him he hardly recognizes. Bofur sucks cock with graceless hunger, his eyes shut tight and his tongue laving messily as he groans around the mouthful. Bard is helpless at staving off his orgasm, and in minutes it rips through him like a gale of hot wind and leaves him in panting spasms, Bofur still there sucking the last pulses of come down, fingers hollowing him out. Bard tries to speak but all that comes out is a crushed sounding gasp. </p><p>Bofur pulls off in a mess of froth, eyes bright and wild. “Mahal, you are the most beautiful thing, so <em>fucking</em> beautiful,” he breathes as he bends Bofur in half, rising unsteadily to his knees to push his thighs to his chest, still fingering him deep and hungry, the nervy, burning drag of it so good Bard’s spent cock twitches against his stomach. “You’re too tight for me to fuck,” he breathes, pressing kisses to Bard’s chest as he withdraws, eliciting a groan. He’s making quick work of his own flies anyway, though, freeing his cock from his trousers and small clothes, then pressing it into the crack of Bard’s ass lengthwise, bucking sweet and slow. “Not tonight. But Bard, <em>please</em> if you let me—I’ll take such good care of you, if you give me this pleasure again. If you’ll have me another night.” </p><p>Bard chokes on a disbelieving laugh, head thrown back, vision still fractured with stars. “You can have me another night. You can have me every night.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Bofur bites out, thrusting <em>against</em> Bard without fucking <em>into</em> him, though the head of his cock keeps nudging ver his hole, catching the swollen rim of it deliciously. Bofur’s cock does not feel particularly long but it’s <em>thick, </em>the maddening drag of it still enough for Bard to feel opened up, split. “<em>Mahal</em>, I’ll fill you up so good,” Bofur groans, cock pulsing and hot every time it rubs over Bard’s hole in a filthy stroke. “Come inside you. Lick it out. —<em>ah, </em>fuck, <em>Bard,” </em>he gasps then, mouth open and wet over the thunder of Bard’s heart as he finishes, spilling all over his ass, his balls, his thighs. Painting fever-hot skin in a rage of molten fire. </p><p>When he falls away to breathe, Bard follows him, cupping his face to steal kisses from his panting mouth, not ready for this to be over. “I feel like m’dreaming,” Bofur murmurs in between slick drags of their lips, his fingers in Bard’s hair. </p><p>“As do I,” Bard confesses, propping himself up on an elbow so that he can stare, drink his fill, drown in the expanse of skin lit up in lantern light. Bofur’s cock is still half hard, come clinging to the broad crown in a white sheen, and Bard reaches down to collect it, smearing the slickness in. He decides touching is not enough, though, so he shifts down to suck it into his mouth, inhaling the overwhelming smell of musk and sweat as he swirls his tongue lazily over whatever he can reach, face buried in the thatch of dark hair surrounding it.</p><p>“Hm,” Bofur murmurs, squirming with a wince. “Dunno what you’ve heard about dwarves, but the rumors about recovery time are regrettably somewhat exaggerated. But if you give me a minute—”</p><p>“I’m just—I just want to feel you,” Bard admits in a whisper, cupping his heavy balls and flicking a tongue over them, drunk on salt. “I don’t expect anything more.” </p><p>Bofur lifts his head to smile down at Bard, then, though the tilt of it is hazy and unsure. It is not his usual smile, and it leaves Bard longing for the sun.  “So, have you ever—”</p><p>“Yes, when I was a young man,” Bard says automatically, pillowing his head on Bofur’s thigh, rubbing the plane of muscle up and down, loving the shift of coarse hair beneath his palm. “A boy, really.” He thinks back to his schoolyard days of curious experimentation, and decides it's rather incomparable. Fearful, twenty-something fumbling with another boy his own age is nothing like being bent in half, swallowing promises of being cored, and a dwarf’s thick fingers pressing into places he’s never been able to discover himself. “It wasn’t like this,” he admits, eyes slipping shut. </p><p>Bofur reaches down and pets his hair. “Bard,” he says after a long, trembling  moment of cooling sweat and aching silence. “Would it change things, if you were?” </p><p>“If I—if I were what?” Bard murmurs. </p><p>“The one I wanted,” Bofur says. “You said you knew you weren’t the one I wanted, but you were wrong. You are. You have been, for—I don’t know. For so fucking long. I just didn’t think I had a snowflake’s chance in summer at getting what I wanted.” </p><p>Bard is quiet for a few moments, waiting for the weight of the truth to catch up to him. When it does, each word sinks into his skin like a tattoo, and imbeds itself there indelibly. He forces his weight up onto all fours, bracketing Bofur between his arms before he kisses him deep and blind and hungry. It is a kiss like that at the end of a long journey: home, and the promise of everything that comes along with it. Warmth and dirty sheets and long, quiet evenings spent next to someone you love. </p><p>For the first time, Bard’s new house <em>fits</em> right. It exhales around him, like the walls were holding their breath. “It only changes things for the better,” he promises, thumbing over the corner of Bofur’s mouth before following the path with his tongue. He tastes like wine and fire and salt and tomorrow. “You are the one<em> I</em> want. When I told you to take me I meant it in every way.” </p><p>And then—there it is. His real smile, his true smile, his smile like the sun. Bard kisses it, and kisses it again, and then he licks tears from where they have dripped down into the deepest of eye-crinkles, and his heart feels like it’s swelling to a rupture point, like his chest is too narrow to house it. He would break for this, though. He would break one hundred times over. “By my beard,” Bofur sighs, carding a hand up through the back of Bard’s hair and tugging sweetly, gaze wet. “I think I <em>am</em> dreaming.” </p><p>He’s not, though, and Bard makes sure he knows it. They kiss until the sun begins to creep over the mountain, and then they drift off tucked together, Bard curled possessively around Bofur’s small but  sturdy frame, one knee pressed between his thighs, his chin hooked atop his shoulder. And perhaps it is dawn, and perhaps they are on the sitting room floor instead of the four poster bed with its velvet canopy. But still, it is the first night in many weeks that Bard sleeps long, and sleeps soundly. </p>
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